


Brilliant Disguise

by LucySpencer



Series: Those Graces [2]
Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Heavy Angst, I Don't Even Know, POV Second Person, Vignette, What Have I Done
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-13
Updated: 2014-05-13
Packaged: 2018-01-24 15:25:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1609982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LucySpencer/pseuds/LucySpencer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Follow-up to Those Graces, aka more vignettes of Olivia's life post-Surrender Benson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brilliant Disguise

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Well, I didn’t really know if I was going to leave the last one as a standalone, but I left it open in case I decided to continue...which I guess I did! Once again, this part might be the end, but I have a feeling it won’t be. Quotes in italics taken from Beautiful Disguise by Bruce Springsteen.
> 
> As before, warnings for: second person POV, references to past violence, and general unhappiness.

_So tell me what I see when I look in your eyes  
is that you, baby, or just a brilliant disguise?_

He arrived so quickly that you wondered if he had commandeered a squad car. Which was for the best, maybe, because it didn't give you enough time to really think about what the hell you just did. On the other hand, you really could have used the chance to make yourself a bit more presentable. Elliot had seen you looking pretty damn bad before, but this was a momentous occasion of sorts and you felt like it really called for more than greeting him while barefoot and sans makeup to hide your puffy red eyes.

Even as you opened the door, you weren't sure how you'd react. You had envisioned so many scenarios over the years- sometimes you slapped him, sometimes you hugged him, sometimes you did both. Sometimes you grabbed him by the shoulders and kissed him with everything you had in you.

You never imagined standing at the door mutely while he frowned, giving his surroundings the once-over. "Whose place is this?"

Figures. Years go by and yet it took less than a second for him to start grilling you on your personal life. It had to be some sort of record. "Brian's," you said, gesturing for him to come inside before you changed your mind and left him out in the hallway.

"Cassidy? That idiot?"

You decided you weren't even going to try and respond as he made himself comfortable on the couch. Time to get straight to the point. "I got the flowers. I don't appreciate you trying to contact me like that. There’s enough shit in my life right now without whatever game you’re trying to play.”

"So you called me to come over so you could tell me to leave you alone. I see."

"No. I mean, yes. I wanted to tell you that and I didn't think it was appropriate over the phone. Some things people deserve to hear face to face." His expression didn't change but you still knew that had to be a punch in the gut. Perfect.

"Liv. Listen, I-"

You shook your head so sharply it hurt, telling him that you didn't want to hear it, explanations or apologies or whatever he was about to offer up. You had spent so long grieving over his disappearance and now you just didn't have the energy to dredge all those feelings up again. Someday, maybe, but not right then. "I wasn't even planning on calling you, but..."

"You didn't want to be alone and I'm the only person you know who wouldn't ask you if you wanted to talk about it," he said, saving you from having to say it yourself.

You gave him a sad little smile. "Apparently I shut people out, can you believe that?"

"You? Nah," he scoffed.

"That's what I thought too."

You chatted about safe topics, his kids and your hair color and where that damn plane could have gone, ignoring that there were enough elephants in the room for a fucking circus. It wasn’t that you had suddenly forgiven him- actually, you wanted to strangle him just as much as you ever had. What he did had hurt you deeply, the kind of hurt that sinks into your bones and takes a little piece of your soul with it. You weren’t a stranger to that kind of pain. But. You just never expected it from _him._

But that wasn't what you were thinking about when you were lying on the floor of that godawful beach house, wondering if you would still be alive by the time help came- or if you even wanted to keep living when you knew everything that you would have to endure in the days and weeks and lifetime to come. You closed your eyes and saw him looking back at you, and in that moment all you wanted was just one more time. Just a chance to sit across the table from him in some dive of a bar drinking watery beer with the closest person you’d ever had to a brother. They say that when you're about to die, your life flashes before your eyes. If that was the truth, your life apparently came down to one person. Go figure.

That one person was doing a remarkable job of restraining himself from what you knew he was dying to do, which was demand to know what really happened with that motherfucker and then go tear him apart using any and all available means. At the very least, he was obviously wanting to put his fist through the wall. However, your friendship was built not on knowing what to do, but rather knowing what _not_ to do. He knew he was already in a precarious position with you and one false step would land him out on his ass in the corridor. "I won't ask how you are," he had promised earlier. "I'll just assume things are shitty and we'll move on." You approved of this plan. You needed someone who didn't look at you like you were broken, a _victim._ Even more than that, you needed someone who could hold back from attacking an inanimate object until he was out of your sight. (He made it halfway down the hall on his way out before kicking the hell out of the metal door leading to the stairwell. It was impressive.)

You realized he had stopped talking and quickly said something about being happy that things seem to have settled down with his family. Your faraway tone probably made him think you were bullshitting him, but you genuinely meant it. "I'm sure Kathy's glad you guys could work things out."

He turned his head, staring at some invisible point on the wall. "Yeah, well, you do what you have to. At the end of the day, I made her a promise and now I've gotta keep it."

"Yeah." A promise, just like all the ones he never made to you. Maybe that was intentional. You heard what you wanted to in the silences, but maybe all all along it had just been his way of leaving himself an escape route. He would have kept any promise he made to you, you're certain of that, but he had made sure there were none to keep. You exhaled slowly, lips pressed together. "Maybe it's time for you to go now."

He made no move to get up from where he was sitting. "Can I just say one thing?" When you didn't reply, he continued. "I never forgot you. I know what you must think, but I didn't."

There is a difference between not forgetting someone and truly remembering them. Not forgetting takes work, a constant effort to keep holding on. Remembering is effortless, something that takes no holding on at all because it might as well be encoded in your DNA. Trying to explain that to him, however, would do nothing but keep him in the apartment that much longer and you were definitely ready to end this visit. "That's nice."

"You don't believe me, fine. I guess I can't blame you. But...fuck. I just needed to see you, needed to. To tell you I'm so fucking glad you lived."

His expression was perfectly transparent, and you might have doubted him before, but there was no way to fake the way he was looking at you now and the intensity was a bit uncomfortable. You took another deep breath. "Okay. I...thank you for coming. Honestly. I guess I needed this."

"I want to see you again."

"I don't know if that's a good idea. Actually, I think we probably shouldn't even mention that you were here today."

"Ah, loverboy's the jealous type."

"No, but I want to be completely above suspicion here."

"What's he gonna think we're doing?" he asked, amused.

"I just think it's better if we're not alone together." The last thing you needed right now was another reason for Brian to think you were hiding something from him, for Christ’s sake.

"So we won't be. We'll sit at opposite ends of a park bench and look away from each other."

You decided to call his bluff. "Tuesday at three. I'll text you to tell you where to meet me," you said, nudging him out the door. "But don't start thinking...this isn't forgiveness. Don't read too much into it."

"I know." He looked at you like he thought he might not get the chance again for another two years before turning and walking down the hall. You closed the door and leaned your head against it, counting to ten in your mind before you heard the sound of his shoe against metal.

_I wanna know if it’s you I don’t trust  
cause I damn sure don’t trust myself_

When you heard the knock signalling that Brian was at the door, your spine stiffened as you sat up to await whatever was about to come. You held your breath as he walked in and regarded you cautiously. He looked so exhausted, maybe almost as much as you did, and you could feel your resistance crumbling fast. You nodded toward the spot next to you on the couch, stubborn to the very last drop and unable to actually say the words.

He barely had time to sit down before you collapsed against him, hands clutching the back of his shirt as giant sobs shook your whole body. "I hate this, I fucking hate this," you mumbled over and over between shuddering little gasps for air. It really was the only way to sum up everything going on in your head right then. You hated what that sick son of a bitch had done to you and kept right on doing to you even as he sat behind bars. You hated that you would never truly be able to rid yourself of him, whether it be from the ugly red scars or the even uglier memories lurking in even the most benign of places. You hated how it was wreaking havoc in every part of your life and in everyone around you, and most of all you hated yourself. You couldn't stop him then and you couldn't stop yourself now from becoming someone you hardly recognized, someone who would fall apart at the slightest provocation and call up the person who had crushed you in the worst of ways just to try and revive the past for a few precious minutes.

"It's gonna get better," he murmured soothingly, and your head jerked upward.

"Is it really? I've been telling people that for years, that they can get beyond all these incredibly tragic situations, and now I'm thinking- am I just full of shit?"

He looked momentarily panicked, mouth opening and closing. You assured him that it's okay, it was more of a rhetorical question, and he looked relieved. Wiping your blurry eyes for the millionth, but probably not last, time of the day, you clasped one of his hands in between yours. "I am...not very good at this. As you can tell." It was the closest thing to an apology you were offering for now. "And I know this is so hard on you. But I'm never going to be that person who can sit down and pour their heart out to you, or anyone. It's just not who I am. All I can give you for now is...you can ask me anything, and I promise you that I will give you an honest answer. It might not even be right away, but you have my word that it _will_ happen."

"Wow. I...that's a pretty big leap of faith there."

"Yeah. But I wouldn't promise you something like that if I didn't trust you absolutely."

Both of you were silent for a moment, mulling over this new development. "Did...did you think you were going to die?"

You nodded without hesitation. "I knew it was a matter of time. I could tell he had this mental list of. Things he wanted to do to me. Once he was finished with that, I wouldn't be of any use to him anymore. So I decided I had to fight him as much as I was able, even if it might be worse for me in the short run, because it would buy more time. The longer it took him to get tired of me, the more chances I would have to escape or be found."

It was the most you had shared with anyone other than the doctors or the officer who had taken your original statement at the hospital, and he seemed to recognize the amount of strength it had taken to even say that much. He kissed the top of your head reverently as you leaned back in to let him put his arms around you once again- but this time you didn’t let go.

_God have mercy on the man who doubts what he’s sure of_

He was there at three o'clock just as planned, sitting on your prearranged bench and holding a coffee cup in each hand. "Please tell me that's actually alcoholic."

"No day drinking in the park for you, Benson," he chided, and you pretended to be upset but took the cup gratefully.

"Caffeine is almost as good. I think Brian's hiding his stash from me." When you had questioned him about it, he said he had switched to decaf, and when you called bullshit on that, he asked if you really needed it when you already weren't sleeping at night. He did things like that every day. It was enough to make you think seriously about using your connections to see if you could get him some mandatory overtime.

"So how did this whole Brian thing start? And when? And _why_?"

You wondered if this was the same tone he used to grill his daughters about their dates. Probably. In your mind he was the stereotypical sitcom dad, the kind who flashed his badge at every poor boy that set foot in the house and made sure the kid knew he would be up all night cleaning his Glock. "A year or so ago, I guess. To make an incredibly long story that is none of your business short, we ran into each other again, he got hurt, and so I helped him out for a bit while he was recovering. From there we kept seeing each other, and then we went on vacation together over Christmas, and then one day we just looked at each other and thought hmm, this must be serious. So go ahead, mock away."

He frowned in confusion. "I'm still stuck on the part where you voluntarily took time off work. You're actually capable of doing that? Doesn't count if you checked your phone every five minutes."

"Twice in ten days," you said smugly. "It was amazing, actually. We slept in every morning, spent all afternoon at the beach, and had sex about four times a day. Life was good." You threw in the last unnecessary detail simply because you knew the mental image would irritate him to no end.

It seemed to work, if his scowl was any indication. "Beautiful. And now that the honeymoon's over?"

"I don't know, El, but I'll be sure and call you when we figure it out. You'll be the first one to know."

"I just don't trust anyone who doesn't remember the seventies."

Your patience with the overprotective shtick was rapidly coming to a halt. "He's good to me, okay? For once I have somebody who adores me and who's not running away when shit gets intense so let's. Let's please just not do this."

He instantly picked up on the personal jab, turning his head toward you abruptly and starting to speak before thinking better of it and turning away from you again. Staring out across the green expanse in front of you, he scratched his chin and you could tell he was choosing his next words carefully. "How is it that it takes me all of thirty seconds to download an app that will let me trace my phone to the ends of the earth, and yet they still somehow manage to lose a five hundred thousand ton jumbo jet?"

"Thank you! That's what I keep saying. There’s no logic to it at all.”

_Now look at me, baby, struggling to do everything right  
but then it all falls apart and out go the lights_

You are still waiting for the part where things get better.

A month had passed since you left the hospital, and you had finally reached the point where you could get out of bed on some mornings without having to wait a half hour for the painkillers to kick in first. The burns were beginning the lengthy process of healing, and your bad wrist became a little more useful every day, but those ailments had already found replacements. You have random stabbing chest pains, stomach cramps that leave you breathless and doubled over in agony, and a near constant headache. They're psychosomatic, the doctor says, as if knowing it's all in your head will make it any better, and he scribbles off a prescription for sleeping pills that you promptly crumple into a ball and stash at the bottom of your purse.

Sleep is not going to help. Sleep has become the enemy. You might be able to try and talk yourself out of the panic attacks that follow you throughout the day, but then the sun sets and any capacity for rational thought you may have had is gone. The night before, you had woken up to find your period had arrived unexpectedly early. Rather than recognize it for what it was, however, your sleep deprived and constantly hyper-alert brain immediately went into crisis mode. Blood. You were dying. He had come back to kill you, just like you knew he would. You had succumbed to sleep, giving him the chance to strike, and now you were going to bleed out right here on the cold bathroom floor. There was no use calling out for help, not when there obviously hadn't been anyone who was able to defend you. He had won. You hugged your knees to your chest and buried your head against them, tears running down your face in silent acceptance of your fate. After having been through the whole PTSD song and dance before, you swore to yourself you would never be a victim again, but a few years pass and here you are. You failed yourself again.

Some time later (Minutes? Weeks? Years? They all felt the same), there was a hand touching yours and a soft voice saying something you couldn't understand. You suddenly noticed the absence of any sort of excruciating pain and realized that this must be it, that you had died. "I'm dead," you told the voice. "He killed me, I'm dead." The voice kept talking, and you couldn't make out the words but it seemed to be arguing with you. "I'm dead," you insisted again, and you never really had a theory on what an afterlife might be like, but you didn't think you would have to argue your case to the gatekeeper.

Now he was calling you by name, softly pleading with you to open your eyes, just look at me, Liv, please. You raised your head a fraction of an inch, peeking up through your lashes and then shutting your eyes again to block out the sudden brightness of the light bulbs above the mirror. But now you recognized the feel of the fingertips brushing your wrist and the voice promising that you hadn't died and you looked up again to see Brian crouched down in front of you. It was all coming into focus at once, that you were very much alive, slumped down against a wall while half-asleep and covered in a cold sweat. "Fuck," you mumbled, refusing any help even as you struggled to get to your feet.

"Where did you go there? Another dream?" he asked cautiously, and you certainly weren't going to explain the whole ridiculous story of your death and subsequent resurrection, so you kept reassuring him that you were fine as you urged him out of the room with a bullshit request for a glass of water. He looked over at the sink you were leaning against pointedly, but then just gave you a tight smile and retreated.

You groaned to yourself, wanting nothing else other than to go back to bed and never speak of this again, but the evening's second act was just getting started. Brian made the grave tactical error of coming back into the room while you were still getting changed, and there was no polite way to put it- you snapped. Panicked by the thought that he might have caught a glimpse of the scars across your torso that you kept so carefully hidden, you let go with an angry outburst that you had been saving up for quite some time. Having been raised by the queen of nonsensical tirades, you came about the talent honestly, and it took hardly any effort at all to call him every name you had ever heard and a few that you were pretty sure you had made up just for the occasion.

He stood still and silent as you pushed at his shoulders ineffectually, both of you knowing you were wanting to emphasize a point more than you were actually attempting to hurt him. You paused in your ranting long enough to come up for air, and that's when you saw it. The genuine look of fear in his eyes. Not _of_ you, but _for_ you, as if he was afraid you might have crossed over into a place that there was no returning from. You could see your eyes reflected in his as well, and if you looked even closer you could see a little girl, no more than seven or eight, backed into a corner and unable to keep from flinching as an older woman grabbed her upper arm roughly. "Don't _look_ at me like I'm _crazy_!" the woman shrieked, but the little girl is watching you instead, well and truly betrayed.

You pushed past him, unable to stand the expression on his face anymore, and he let you go without protest. Your fury only grew as you threw open the kitchen cabinets one by one, unable to find what you were looking for, and you got the distinct impression that he was hiding your stash to keep you away from it when you were in precisely the mood you were in right then. Fuck that. No caffeine, no alcohol- what the hell was this place turning into?

The refrigerator was your last resort, and it's there that you found an assortment of whatever cheap beers he was always drinking. He probably didn't think to hide them because he was sure you wouldn't touch that shit. He was wrong.

You grabbed a few bottles and collapsed on the couch, trying to ignore the disgusting taste in your mouth because you knew it was all for a greater good and you would thank yourself once you were nicely buzzed. The vision of your younger self still haunted you. How could you even explain it to her? It would be no comfort for her to know that she might never be able to forgive, but someday she would understand. Someday she would know for herself how easy it is to give into the rage when there's nothing else left inside you.

When you finished off bottle number four and decided to call it a night, you shuffled back into the dark bedroom where he was lying on his side of the bed and watching you with glazed-over eyes. "I am so fucking embarrassed," you slurred, the latest in your string of non-apologies. "Damn it."

"We don't need to talk about it now, just come back to bed," he said in a voice that indicated he wasn't going to want to talk about it in the morning, or ever. You did as told, climbing under the covers and shifting until your head was resting in the crook of his arm. "Whatever you think I saw, I didn't. So...there's that."

You know he was telling the truth, because otherwise he would be going on about how he didn't care and you were still beautiful to him or some tired shit like that. His palm slid upward over your back and you shook your head in warning. "Not the hair," you reminded him, and it was the last thing you would say until dawn.

Neither of you would fall asleep that night.

_I wanna read your mind and know just what I’ve got in this new thing I’ve found_

The phone chimed, and you jumped to your feet with a stifled cry. That wasn't Brian's assigned ringtone, but you couldn't think of who else would be calling at...1:47 AM, the green light above the microwave helpfully informed you.

"What are we watching?" the voice on the other end asked casually, unaware of the momentary terror his call had caused.

"Why are you calling? I could've been asleep, you know. We both could have been, and how would explain to him why my ex-partner is bothering me in the middle of the night? That seems a little suspicious."

"You weren't asleep and he's not there."

"And how do you know that?"

"Retirement was boring me so I took a job with the Psychic Friends hotline," he retorted. "Now what are we watching?"

You didn't remember how it started so many years ago, the late night ritual of picking up the phone when you had a hunch that the other wasn't sleeping. He had a nearly perfect record of predicting when you were awake- and if you had ever woken him up, he had never let on. But that was the better part of a decade ago, and just because you may have been sitting alone in the apartment with every light on and one hand on your gun, it didn't mean you were going to give him the satisfaction of knowing he was right.

"Channel 34 has an infomercial about aerobics for seniors. Relevant to your interests?" you teased. The unspoken rules of these phone calls were clear- no shop talk and no conversations that might bring up strong feelings of any kind, because experience had shown that they could be dangerous for two overtired minds lulled into the false safety of darkness. This basically left nothing but late night TV, and the two of you had sampled all its delights over the years, from infomercials to music videos and outdated movies that had no business being made in the first place.

"Seventeen. A vitamin to postpone menopause. Relevant to yours?"

"I'm wounded," you said dryly, flipping to the right channel. The commercial is over, and now a Spanish-speaking couple on screen was bickering back and forth, something about where to hide the money. Now they were falling backwards together onto a hotel bed, and you cringed for a few seconds before punching a button on the remote. You always had to change the channel when a sex scene went on too long (as though that would be the most graphic thing you had ever witnessed together and somebody's virtue would be irreversibly compromised). Next channel- sitcom where some overly emotional woman was confessing her love for her best friend. Christ, no.

You perked back up when you found an old favorite, an ad for one of those Time Life CD collections. "Oh God, El, they're still selling that one."

"Power ballads of the 80's?" he guessed correctly. Upon seeing a clip of a woman in a very dated wedding dress walking down the aisle, he chuckled.

"Don't even start, I know what you're going to say."

"But it's Guns 'n Roses, Liv, and you are the last one-"

"Axl Rose is a deplorable human being, no one's arguing with that, but there wasn't a college girl on earth who didn't get a little emotional when November Rain was playing."

"Including you?"

"I guess you'll never know." You stood up and made your way around the apartment, switching the lights off as you went while the two of you moved on to debating which Springsteen song was the all time greatest. By the time you had laid out a convincing case as to why nothing would ever top Rosalita, the flickering of the TV and the moonlight streaming through the blinds were the only things left lighting up the room. Curled up on the couch with Bon Jovi playing in the background and Elliot's voice in your ear, you closed your eyes for the first time in days.

_So when you look at me, you’d better look hard and look twice  
is that me, baby, or just a brilliant disguise?_


End file.
